


These Stains Run Deep

by goldenforestprince



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Gunshot Wounds, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenforestprince/pseuds/goldenforestprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the failed Project Insight, Bucky has finally escaped from Hydra's grasp. On the run for a month now, chasing ghosts of memories and laying low to avoid Hydra agents, he realized that all his memories lead to none other than Captain America. Thus, while still tiptoeing around Hydra, the Winter Soldier's new mission becomes to find and isolate Captain America himself, to learn about the man that James Barnes once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Programming

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing project that I'm hoping to have done before Civil War comes out! :) Enjoy!
> 
> "Какова моя миссия?" translates to "What is my mission?"

Bucky took a long, deep drag from the cigarette, looking down at the city below him. He allowed his gaze to wander the streets below as his feet dangled over the edge of the rooftop, high out of sight and deep enough in the shadows that no one would be able to spot him. He watched people go on with their daily lives, scurrying in a way he hoped he never did, even before they wiped him the first time. 

He breathed the smoke out in a thin stream. Too long he had been chasing errant thoughts, unbidden memories that controlled his actions almost as deeply as Hydra had, if not moreso. It was the first time as far back as he could remember that something inside him actually had control of him, and he didn’t know if the thought was comforting or unnerving; it was a thin line.

Lately, it seemed like it was holding true more and more, too. He would get a glimpse of a memory, a taste or phrase or sensation, and his body would go on autopilot while his mind dissected it, trying to determine its origins and meaning. The lack of discipline had almost gotten him in some nasty situations, when he was caught trespassing in houses or hospitals or museums. He knew he had to be more careful, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He had killed innumerable people when he was running Hydra’s missions - innocent people - so what did it matter if he was found and put down while trying to reclaim his memories? He doubted he’d ever get them all back, anyway. There was so much blood on his hands, it soaked right through to the bone. He’d never be able to wash it all clean.

What he truly didn’t want to face though, was that almost every thought revolved around Ste- around Captain America. His eyes lowered as he chastised himself. He didn’t know Steve anymore, didn’t know if Steve even remembered him. Bucky had been alive during those 70 years. Not awake, not truly, but in a mental statis as Zola turned to mind wipes, serums, and finally when he didn’t comply, torture. If Bucky had lost himself during those years, it was to preserve what was left of him as they scrambled his brain and untangled the threads of his mind. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore, and his sense of self preservation was practically non-existant. If he wasn’t anyone, if he wasn’t a person, what did it matter if he died?

Sighing, he got up and made his way to the staircase at the other end of the rooftop, heading down the many flights. He had to find Steve. He was the only one who could tell Bucky who he was; he knew that from the museum. Steve wasn’t alone in this age anymore, he had people he could call friends - friends that Bucky had tried to kill not a month prior - but all Bucky had was Steve. Hydra was dismantled now, a serpent without a head, and Bucky was the mouse freed from its fangs, left limping to find its way. 

They were supposed to kill him, supposed to end The Asset once Project Insight failed, but when Bucky traveled to extraction point location after location, no one ever met him there. At first it had made him restless and desperate, the fear and uncertainty leaving him with cold sweats and too much energy that he couldn’t seem to burn. But the restlessness soon gave way to migraines as the memories started flooding back in unbidden, and it lead to what he could only assume were panic attacks. There were periods he couldn’t even remember, where he’d wake up drenched in blood, not knowing if it was his own until he tried to move his metal arm, only to have the wounds open and begin to weep once more. The damn thing was driving him to madness, and he didn’t know how many times he had tried to get it off him, out of him. The wiring ran deep, too deep for him to get out on his own, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying. Distantly, he wondered if he had this grim determination before the fall.

Reaching the street, he pulled his cap down over his eyes. The descent had left him shaky from hunger, and he needed to put more concentration into his steps and less in his thoughts. He wandered the labyrinth of streets, as many people bumping into him as sidling around him. He couldn’t care less. Hydra had made sure he was used to being manhandled, that he wouldn’t snap and kill any of the medical team, and now the civilians were reaping the benefits. Bucky could have smiled at the irony.

A smell caught him off guard, a doughy smell laced with cinnamon, and his stomach gave an eager turn at it. His mind reeled, overwhelming him, and he had to sit. Heading to the patio of a nearby diner and quickly yanking out a worn wooden chair, he collapsed into it. His hands scrubbed at his face, trying to regain some of the focus and not be entirely overcome by memories yet again. He didn’t hear the waitress approach or ask his order, but when she tapped him on the shoulder and was met with a wide-eyed glare decorated with dark patches of sleeplessness, she gave a quick apology and scurried away. _Christ_ , he had to stop doing that.

The tantalizing scent of cinnamon once again assaulted his senses, bringing forth a thought of him and Steve on the back steps of a bakery, sharing a doughnut as a weekly treat. They both knew it probably meant missing a meal later that week, but they relished in the moment. Bucky was used to the effects the serum had on his memory recall by now; he could have reached his hand out and ruffled the young blond’s scraggly hair. 

As quickly as the memory came to him, it was gone, replaced by a steaming mug of coffee set down in front of him. The poor woman had probably brought it while he was still deep in thought. He drained it in one swig, ignoring the unpleasant burning on the way down. Enough places in New York served coffee for free in the mornings, so he figured it was safe to head out unnoticed.

He quickly found out he was sorely wrong when the waitress called for him to stop. People glanced over, and Bucky stiffened at the attention. _Shit._ He wasn’t expecting this, and after Washington, any attention was bad attention. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the first bill he could grab - making a point to ignore the knife that was a mere twitch away from it - and shoved it into her hand, turning away quickly. She called out her thanks, loud enough for everyone to hear, which made him even more prickly. He really was losing his edge. If any of the people there recognized him, he’d be in deep. _Or if they were Hydra,_ said a voice in the back of his mind, and he ground his teeth together. _Yeah, that would probably be worse._

He turned down an alley, getting out of the public eye in order to calm his heart. The thought of Hydra agents finding him was not one he liked facing, and the part of his mind that was still the Soldier was only too eager to have an excuse to take over. He looked up to the sky above him, clouds moving slowly in the wind, trying to slow his breaths and heartbeat alike. The middle of New York was definitely not somewhere he wanted to have an episode.

The footsteps that echoed down the alley behind him were not ones Bucky welcomed. They were slow, assured, and echoed between the walls toward him. He clenched his jaw when Bucky turned and saw him, a balding middle-aged man in a suit, with a self-assured smirk on his leathery face. Bucky met the man's beady eyes, which held a cold stare with an underlying promise of a threat. He didn't know the face, but it didn't mean that face didn't know him. 

“Ah, there you are,” the man said, his laughter mirthless. “We were wondering where you’d gone off to.”

A Hydra agent was the last thing he wanted to deal with. He didn’t want to kill anybody else. He made to move, to leave, but the man clucked his tongue in scolding. Bucky stopped in his tracks, his heart racing and eyes wide. He willed his feet to move, but his programming ran deep. _You’ve upset a superior_ , his mind told him. _You know what comes next._

The man circled him, a menacing look in his those dead, rat-like eyes. Bucky knew that physically, the man was smaller, and far, far weaker. Bucky could have his neck snapped in half a second if he was in control. But they both knew who held the reigns in this situation. The man looked him up and down, appraising his condition. “I had heard that you were becoming soft, but I didn’t realize how much so. I thought you were fully informed to keep your body in prime physical condition. And you’re clearly fighting your programming. Trying to _leave Hydra?_ You know exactly how Pierce is going to react to that.”

Bucky couldn’t look him in the eye. He couldn’t speak. His stomach was in knots, a bead of sweat making its way down his neck. Just when he thought he was free, he’d been found. Of course it had to be like this. Of course they had to let him believe it, to test him, then come to collect him. It was all a test. And he had failed.

He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “К- Какова моя миссия?” he stuttered uneasily. He knew it was insane; he was the Winter Soldier, the most feared and deadliest assassin, and he was cowering before this imp of a man. But programming ran deep.

He heard sets of heavy footsteps enter the alley behind him, but his position was locked facing the man, waiting desperately for instructions. 

“Pierce will give you your instructions. When you prove to him that you are worthy of them,” he said in a dark tone. “If you thought Alexander was bad, you’ll soon see that his son is even worse. For now, you will be detained.”

Bucky’s eyes widened once more, a protest caught in his throat as a group of men encircled him. For the first time, his mind didn’t supply him with ways to disarm and exterminate them.

“ _Sputnik_ ,” the man whispered, giving a dramatic wave of his hand.

Steve’s face flashed before Bucky’s eyes before everything went black.


	2. Loyalty

When Bucky began to wake up, he found himself sitting in the same device they always used to forcefully empty his head. His mind was blessedly blank; given his position and state of mind, they had probably wiped him while he was unconscious. He tried clearing his throat, and was met with a raw burning. If he had been screaming, they had definitely wiped him, and he was glad to not remember it. Giving a slow scan of the room, he saw a team of medical staff who made a herculean effort not to make eye contact with him as he was poked and prodded at with needles and sensors alike.

"It's awake. Go get Pierce," one of the labcoats said to a younger member. The younger man nodded and darted away dutifully. Within moments, the youth returned, with a young, clean-shaven blond man following closely behind him. The man held clear authority, arms held behind his back, and an arrogant sneer on his face. Bucky didn't know how a man so young could become head of a Hydra facility, let alone hold any real authority, but everyone stood straighter when he entered the room, and Bucky couldn't argue that this young man was in charge. 

Looking Bucky in the eye, the man instead addressed a man across the room. "Agent Magnus, you've done a wonderful service by locating the Asset. You will be properly rewarded, I assure you. For now, you are dismissed."

The man gave a hasty "Thank you, sir" before giving Bucky a long stare with beady eyes, and left the room. The new director, Pierce's son, leaned down in front of Bucky, which would have been too close for comfort, if Bucky had any sense of that anymore. His calculated stare bore into Bucky's unfocused gaze. "You've been missing a long time, soldier. I'm Eamon Pierce, Alexander's inheritor. Welcome home."

The phrase turned something in Bucky's stomach, but he couldn't place what. "Какова моя миссия?" he asked softly, his voice slurred.

Pierce stood back up, eyebrows raised. Ignoring the question, he said, "Well, it's good to see all the work my father did wasn't put entirely to waste. What do you remember?"

Bucky tried to remember. He really did. All that was left inside of him was a numbing cold, and a fog in his head that refused to leave. He couldn't think straight. He wasn't used to being asked instead of ordered, and it made him nervous. Nervousness was usually beaten out in favor of compliance.

The director let out a sigh. "I won't ask you again. Answer the question." But Bucky had no words, no thoughts, only the cold, sharp sting of fear in his chest. After a tense moment of silence, the blond said, "Alright, have it your way." He reached over and pulled a scalpel off the medical tray, then slammed it into Bucky's flesh hand. A scream tore from Bucky's throat. He quickly found out that his hands were restrained, and the scalpel drew more blood as he flexed in pain. All the friendliness drained from Pierce's expression. 

Pain glazed over Bucky's sight, and a sob broke free from his throat. Not this, not again. He had made so much progress, he knew it, but then they stole it all away from him yet again. If he had a name, he couldn't remember it. If he had friends or family, he wouldn't have known any of them. All he knew was instinct: if the man in front of him was pleased with him, and the pain would go away.

The blond's voice broke into his thoughts. "I don't know how my father ran things, but I run a clearly run a tighter ship. When I ask you a question, you answer it. You clearly need more training; you've grown soft, soldier. Now I'm going to ask you one more time. What do you remember?"

"Ничего," Bucky whispered desperately, licking his lips nervously. They had wiped him; what was he supposed to remember? All he knew was that the progress he had made was now lost, but he had no idea what that progress had even been. There was only a pang of sadness in his chest at the knowledge that all the work he had done, all the memories he had begun to piece together, were now erased. They had succeeded in driving it all out and replacing it with themselves, just like they wanted, and just like they had succeeded in doing, time and time again.

Pierce shook his head slowly. "Not good enough." He turned to a labcoat beside him and said, "Clean that up. Prep him for a mission in fifteen minutes. It's time to recalibrate our soldier."

"But sir," the doctor said hesitantly. "He's malnourished. His blood sugar is low, and he probably hasn't eaten in days. His performance will-"

"This is not about the Asset's performance," Pierce said slowly, eyes meeting Bucky's once more. "It's clear that he was out on his own for too long. This is about him learning how to obey orders again. And if he is indeed in a weakened state, it will serve as incentive for him to return to us faster."

The doctor nodded quickly, and began typing on the screen in front of him. Pierce left the room, and the team carefully removed the scalpel, rinsing off the blood and bandaging the wound. The gauze filled up in a manner of minutes, but they made no move to replace it. One of the doctors lifted a nearby mug to his lips and slurped up the dark liquid. Bucky watched closely, something in his mind beginning to stir. Coffee... and cinnamon. His eyes flicked from side to side, locked in chasing a fleeting memory and seeing nothing in the room in front of him. 

Blond hair. No, not Pierce's... someone else's; a blond halo atop a beaming smile. A young man armed with nothing but bravery and determination, since he didn't have the strength to go with it. But then he saw a second version of the man, a taller, faster version of the fragile youth that Bucky thought he knew. A man that didn't forget him even when he forgot himself. The irony of Bucky trying to chase the memory of the blond wasn't lost on him.

His thoughts were interrupted by armed agents storming into the room. Bucky was released from his bonds, only to be escorted to a plane outside of the unassuming building, runway surrounded by a dense treeline. Bucky didn't know where they were, but it clearly wasn't Brooklyn. 

He was gracelessly shoved into the plane, followed by four soldiers, to find a waiting Eamon Pierce. Pierce said nothing as the team settled in, he simply watched every weapon become pointed at the Asset as they strapped him in tightly. Soon enough, the small plane was airborne, and the ride remained long and silent. Pierce's head lulled forward at one point, a luxury that Bucky knew he didn't have. Whatever they had planned for him, he knew it wouldn't be good, and he needed every ounce of concentration he could muster.

A voice came on over the intercom. "We're almost there, sir. The mission can commence whenever you're ready." The soldiers around him sprung into action immediately, preparing to remove all of the straps that held Bucky down. Eventually the plane landed and settled, but the engine didn't turn off.

"Wait just a minute, boys. He needs to know the exact details of his mission." Pierce smiled, and it held none of the earlier familiarity and friendliness. Bucky let his gaze drop in submission, his jaw tightening in anticipation. "We're in the Adirondack mountains, north of New York. If you were paying attention to the plane instead of me, you would have noticed which direction we headed. You have 36 hours to return to the Hydra base we left from, and you've been chipped, so this time we won't lose track of you." He smiled, a gruesome misrepresentation of caring.

"Oh, and before I forget," Pierce muttered, then in the blink of an eye, grabbed a pistol from on of the holsters at the hip of the soldier beside him. Bucky heard the shot before he felt it, then pain flared up in his calf. His eyes widened as he heard another shot, this time aimed at his stomach. Pierce nodded to the men to unstrap Bucky, and they dragged him to the door of the plane.

"Maybe you don't remember," Eamon paused to laugh at some private joke, "but the last time you failed a mission, my father died. I don't care if you have to crawl back, but you damn well better be there in 36 hours. It's time to prove you're worth more than all the trouble you've caused." And with that, he was shoved out the door of the plane and onto the dirt below. The motor of the plane deafened him as it took off once more, kicking up dust that flew into his eyes and into his wounds.

He lay in the dirt for too long, hands clutched weakly to his side. He tried to catch his breath, to will the pain away, but it had been too long since he was in this kind of pain; he simply wasn't used to it anymore. They were right, he had become soft, and he hated himself for it. 

He tried to stand, his knee immediately buckling under the stabbing pain in his leg. He let out a cry that was as much from distress as from pain. Black spots danced in front of his eyes as he fought against his stomach trying to heave and empty what little was in it, and he ground his teeth together as it sent a new flash of pain around the gunshot wound in his side. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in too long, and it was about to jeopardize his chances of even surviving. He was in no condition to walk like this. He would only succeed in giving himself permanent muscle damage if he tried. But he felt the seconds ticking away, and tried once more, with the same result. He knew the serum would get rid of most of the sting in a couple of hours, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt like a son of a bitch. He only had thirty-six hours to prove that he'd be more useful to Hydra alive than dead, and he had to make the best of it no matter what his condition was. Thirty-six hours as a final chance to stay alive and find Captain America. The fact that he even remembered his previous mission after being wiped was a miracle in itself, and he had to push every cell in his body if it meant getting to him. He knew that the Captain had less than no reason to trust him, let alone help him, but something inside him convinced Bucky that he would. He didn’t know how he knew, but that man had all the answers he needed, and he needed to get back to Hydra to stay alive long enough to find him. Or...

He looked down at his flesh arm. There, under the skin just below the inside of his elbow, was a dim light flashing on and off, on and off. He hesitated, then looked away, not even considering the possibility. He was already walking a thin line with Eamon. One more failure would likely result in his termination. Still, as he limped down the hill towards the treeline, the serum already beginning to patch the flesh back together, he kept glancing at his arm. It would be so easy to just rip it out. It would hurt, but a mission was a mission, and finding Captain America had become his number one task.

But first, he had to eat. Losing more blood wouldn't do his body any good, and he was lightheaded and shaky enough as it was. Once in the trees, he allowed himself the luxury of leaning against the trunks as he walked. He quickly realized that the younger ones wouldn't be able to support him, though, after he leaned against a tree too thin to bear his weight and went crashing to the ground. A shout of anger almost passed his lips, but Bucky was beginning to see how dire his situation was. Bleeding, hungry, dehydrated, and with no tools or weapons. It had been almost half an hour since his mission had begun, and he had made almost no progress. He imagined that Eamon would look him in the eye when he took his life, relishing in the moment, as if Bucky was no more than an animal. He didn't look forward to that, but he just didn't have the physical strength to move. His stomach was on fire, his head aching, and his limbs as heavy as lead.

He shifted himself against the trunk of a larger tree, grimacing when he had to put weight on his leg. He didn't understand what the point of sending him out on a mission in this state was. There was only one objective: return to the base. No assassinations, no intel retrieval, no escorting anyone, not even any training. The mission had no purpose, no meaning. Eamon had said that he had to prove his worth, but hadn't he already done that? Every single mission he had been tasked with over the years had been a success, with the exception of Natalia Romanovna and Captain America. Even Nicholas Fury had fallen under his fire. Barring the times he was distracted by his past, his success rate was flawless. No other assassins had lasted as long as he had, had completed as many missions as he had without being sniffed out or killed. He was the best at what he did, and he was unstoppable. And now he had to prove that nothing would stand in his way.

Looking back down at his arm, he watched the small yellow light blink on and off, considering it. This was his only chance to let nothing else stop him from finding Captain America. In 36 hours, he had to be far enough away from this god forsaken chip that Hydra wouldn't be able to find him. More than that, he had to actually be alive. Bucky wouldn't be able to find Captain America if he died of hunger out in the wilderness. _That was usually how escape plans worked,_ he griped to himself as he looked around himself for anything useful. He didn't look forward to invoking Eamon's wrath, but finding the Avenger was more important than anything else. Even himself.

Finding nothing that could serve the purpose he intended, he cringed inwardly. He would have to dig it out with his metal hand. He didn't know how the medical team didn't think that one through, putting it somewhere he could see. Well, their loss was his gain... sort of. He took as deep of a breath as he could past the wound in his stomach, as his metallic fingers hovered over the blinking light, trembling. Just one tug, Barnes. _That's all you've got to do. Just dig in there and rip it out, just like you tried to do to your arm how many times?_

He froze. What if there was wiring that ran further in, just like his arm? They must have known he would try this, that was probably why they put the chip somewhere so obvious. It was another test. What if it linked to blood vessels, and would cause him to bleed out? He squeezed his eyes shut. No, he had to try. He didn't know where he'd go, but he had to get out of this damned forest and find Rogers if it killed him. He didn't acknowledge the fact that at this rate, it probably might.

Bucky reached down and ripped off part of his civilian shirt, blatantly ignoring the fact that they had equipped him with nothing of formidable use. He tore off a strip that wasn't soaked in blood and carefully set it on his leg for when he was done. He had to do this. There was no other way. Taking another breath as deeply as he could, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, trying not to think about the hydration he'd lost already through perspiration and blood loss.

He was the Winter Soldier, the embodiment of death and destruction, or as close of one as he was going to get. Hydra had broken him down, and built him back up from the inside out. They had taken any last shred of his humanity, and all of his memories with it, and he had still managed to break free and try to make it on his own. _He could rip a goddamn tracking chip out of his arm._

His metal fingers hovered over his right arm once more. If he was the slightest bit grateful that he hadn't managed to rip off that arm yet, he certainly didn't think it now. He wasn't going to enjoy this. The mark in his hand where the scalpel had pierced it was still tender, despite it beginning to heal, and a wound like this would only add to his arm being out of commission.

Finally, he knit his eyebrows together, heart racing, and he sunk his index and thumb into the meat of his arm. He failed to bite back a hoarse scream, and it ripped through his already shredded throat. Blood pooled around his fingers, and his vision distorted with pain, making it impossible to see what he was doing. With the pressure sensitivity of his hand, he was able to distinguish metal from skin, and he pinched the small metal piece and yanked it out as hard as he could. 

Immediately, a pulse of electricity ran down his metal arm, distracting him from the fresh wound. He slammed his jaw shut, trying to work past the pain. Eventually, the electric shock subsided, but the wires and plates in his arm tensed and held together, unmoving. Bucky looked down at the arm, and tried to move the fingers. Nothing. He swallowed nervously, then tried again. No more than before. "нет," he pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper. "нет, нет, нет, нет!" He tried again and again, but the metal digits refused to move, the tracking chip still held tightly between the stiff fingers. 

Panting, he leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut as the pain in his flesh arm grew. When he had tensed at the electric shock, the blood flow had increased to the new wound, and it now it burned like hell. He slowly opened his eyes and look back down, he saw that the skin was certainly torn, not a neat hole like he had hoped it would make, despite knowing better. He watched the blood drip down his arm and onto the grass below. _Trackable,_ he thought, his trained mind taking over. _Scented, identifiable._ He had to stop the blood flow if he was to avoid being found again.

After a moment, a thought occurred he him, and he frowned, inspecting the wound and the tracker alike. There were small wire ends that were still in his arm, sewn into blood vessels. His eyes widened, and he looked at the wires dangling from the tracker, small chunks dangling at the ends of them. The wires in question matched the ones sticking out of the wound. 

"дерьмо!" he screamed, his voice all but useless. The wires had been attached to the blood vessels. They must have done it while he was under. He glanced between the wound and the tracker, panicking. When he had torn out the tracker, it had taken pieces of his arteries with it. He was going to bleed out, he was going to die in this _fucking forest!_ He wrenched the chip out of his metal hand, ignoring the pain in his palm, then launched it as far as he could, which he knew wasn't far enough. He snatched the strip of cloth, holding one end with with his working hand, wrapped it as tightly as he could around the wound, then yanked at the knot with his teeth. There, good enough. It was a sloppy job, but it was the best he could do with one hand. 

Now that he was more or less bandaged, he really needed to get the hell out of here. Hydra likely already knew that the chip had been removed, and could be leaving the base any minute. Bucky was sure that the last thing they wanted was to lose their precious Winter Soldier again, especially after just getting him back. 

He fought to catch his breath. He blinked rapidly, his vision darkening and head pounding, trying to regain his breaths and calm his heartbeat. The faster the beats, the more blood would pump out of the gash. He only had one working arm now, and he had to make it last. He needed medical attention, and he needed it now. He knew he couldn't go to any of the hospitals in urban areas, as they'd recognize him immediately, and undoubtedly a Hydra agent would come to collect him. His options were limited to whatever knowledge of first aid and wilderness survival had survived the wipes thus far. This wasn't a good situation, but he'd been through worse. Probably.

His stomach churned angrily, and dizziness overtook his head. He closed his eyes, seeking relief in the darkness. Hungry, dehydrated, injured, with no weapons or tools, and now bleeding out. Had he really come this far for it all to end like this? Hydra would come looking for him, and find his cold, dead corpse. And that would be his end. He let out a shaky sigh. They had given him a reasonable mission, one last chance, and he had failed. Again. Well, they had planned to put him down like a stray dog anyway. This couldn't be much worse.

Trying to ignore the pounding in his ears, he tried to stand up using his good leg, leaving heavily on the trunk of a tree. He swayed, vision going dark, but just when he thought he was ready to leave, his metal arm pulsed again, stronger this time. The shock tore through his body, causing his muscles to spasm involuntarily, which only added to his agony as they irritated the many wounds. He struggled to stay standing, to get away before he lost the last of his strength, but the pain was too overwhelming, and he crashed down to the forest floor.

Flashes entered his mind past the darkness, each accompanied by blinding pain. A blond halo of hair. Determined eyes that were as blue as the sky, and seared with rage when angered. A youth that was supposed to be far too scrawny and fragile to house the determination and fight that he had within him. Images of an old mattress shared on a cold night. Tears shed - and then quickly wiped away - outside of a hospital room, not knowing if the occupant was going to walk out or be rolled out, lifeless and cold and still. Fear of not knowing if those beautiful blue eyes were going to make it through another winter.

Fear of not knowing if he was going to be the one to take the life from behind those eyes. The thought burned in his stomach, twisted and cold, and was quickly replaced. A half-hearted smile that never faltered even when Bucky's own courage had died. Steadfastness that was like a drug to him, always keeping him orbiting around the blond. Courage that never seemed to dim, even when Bucky had forgotten entirely what its wielder had meant to him.

Bravery to face someone who had forgotten him, who was ready to tear him apart, but who he still believed in and trusted enough to put his life in their hands.

_Steve was alive._

The thought was enough to throw Bucky back into consciousness. Disoriented and gasping, Bucky came to, squinting in the light of the harsh evening sun. His head was killing him. He knew he had dreamed, but of what, he couldn't remember. He let his gaze wander around him, looking at the beams of sunlight that were of spun gold, just like the mat of blond hair he had seen...

_Steve._ Bucky could have laughed aloud. He remembered Steve! Steve, who was always his source of comfort, who put everyone else's needs before his own, who never could back down from a fight, and brought all those traits into the field with him when he became Captain America. Steve, as always, had been his saving grace, had kept Bucky's head screwed on right yet again - as much as it could be after all he'd been through. Steve had been alive all this time, and Bucky had looked him in the eye and not remembered the one person dearest to his heart. He felt a pang in his chest, and quickly felt that he deserved his current wounds. He hadn't remembered Steve, but he did now, and he had to find him.

He made to move, to get up, but his arm disobeyed, and it all came crashing back to him. Joy quickly fading from his features, he remembered the dire situation he was in. How long was he out for? By the low angle the sun was at, it seemed to be far, far too long. He had no way of knowing how long it would be before Hydra's agents came to collect him, but he needed to be long gone before that happened. With his injured arm, he made to move the hair out of his eyes, but when he pulled his hand away, there was blood on it.

_Fresh, at least,_ he thought to himself. So he hadn't been out as long as he had expected. Still, he added that to the list of injuries that potentially needed care as soon as he was able to get it. He bitterly recalled that no matter how torn up he had returned after missions, Hydra had always patched him up and provided nourishment, and he would give anything to have that again. Anything besides his freedom. And he didn't think that medical care would be first on the list of priorities if they did find him.

He struggled to sit up, moving slowly to try to be gentle on his amalgamation of wounds. He knew he had to start his trek south the second he was back on his feet, he just wasn't sure how that was going to happen in his current state. He couldn't walk; the bullet had pierced too deeply into his leg for anything besides an unsteady and excruciating limp. He could barely lift himself up, with one arm heavily injured and one that refused to listen to him.

_You could give up,_ a part of him said. _Let Hydra find you, dead or alive. They're the only ones who have bothered with you all this time. Not even Steve cared about you enough to save you. From the time they got you on that damn operating table, not a soul has tried to find you._ His heart lurched, something akin to a whimper caught in his throat. If he gave up, he'd never see Steve again. Never see Steve smile, or laugh, or see his crystalline blue eyes or beautiful drawings. But no matter how pessimistic, the thoughts were right. He was going to die alone, in pain, in the middle of nowhere. Without Steve.

He shook his head, gathering his determination. No, it couldn't end like this. There was too much about himself he didn't know. Too much he didn't remember, and he couldn't let himself go before he finished his mission. Find Captain America. That was the least he could do. He had to find Steve, no matter what cost. Find Captain America. He repeated the words over and over, trying to implant them deeply in his head as if a Hydra agent was listening in and planning a wipe as he did. _Find Captain America._

He knew Hydra would bring hounds. They had trained him to be too careful to leave any tracks that people could follow, but animals were a different story. With his injured hand, he dug his fingers into the earth beside him, grabbing a handful of the moist earth. He knew his body could fight infection, but he could only stop blood loss to a certain degree until his wounds healed, and if he left even one drop for the dogs to find, it was game over. He nearly growled at the thought of being wiped again, and pushed the dirt first into the wound in his leg, and then his side, fighting back a groan of pain at the sharp sting each time. His metal hand was useless, so for the wounds in his arm, he simply wiped it against the dirt, the mud easily swiping across the tender flesh. 

Now that he was as tended to as he would manage in the state he was in, it was time to go. The same as before, he tried lifting his leg up, putting enough weight on it that he could manage to stand. This time, somehow, he managed to stay standing. Then slowly, step by step, breathing one shaky breath at a time, and with every muscle in his body fighting against him, begging him to lie down and give up, Bucky started to make his way south. If they were north of New York, he would make his way to Brooklyn, and he would scour every single street and alley, and search out every hiding place he could find if it meant finding Steve. All he had to do was get to Steve before Hydra got to him.

He passed out twice before he reached anything resembling a road, and his vision was constantly shifting in and out of focus when he was awake. By the third time, a small blessing was that the wound on his head had healed, and the scalpel wound was still bleeding, but starting to close. It was a start. 

What didn't help was that each time he woke, he was somewhere he couldn't recognize, the sun lower in the sky until it disappeared completely. He wasn't sure if it was because it was a symptom of the trauma that Hydra had inflicted on his brain, or worse, if the Soldier was emerging as a survival measure. Neither option looked promising. 

He walked down the dirt path, watching for 18-wheeler's and stumbling behind a tree whenever a typical civilian car approached. He figured the burly types who drove them would be less likely to question him than other civilians, who would be more eager to involve the authorities. It was a risk he couldn't take, not when he could be recognized on sight, and so hitching a ride with a trucker was the best shot he had. Mile by mile he walked as the evening wore on into night, and slowly, his metal arm started to work again. Not quite back to full power, but enough that he could flex the digits without any alarming amount of pain. It was better than nothing.

Finally, after hours of limping down the road and halfway through the night, metal hand glued to the wound at his side and flesh one with the thumb sticking out, a truck driving by took notice and slowed to a steady halt beside him. By some miracle, Bucky didn't end up in the headlights for the driver to see his wounds.

Taking the stop as his cue, he hopped up and opened the door, nearly collapsing onto the worn leather seat inside. The driver was a bear of a man with graying hair and beard, and too many layers of jackets for what would be considered comfortable summer weather. Thankfully, at this time of night, Bucky's weakness could be interpreted as exhaustion, and he was thankful that he didn't get a second look for how readily his legs gave out from under him.

"Where you headed, son?" His voice was a deep grumble, but friendly enough, and Bucky knew he wasn't in any immediate danger of being found out so long as he kept his wounds hidden when they passed under a street light. While he was walking, he had managed to use his spit to wash off the blood from his forehead and most from his hand. His arms and torso were covered by his jacket, his metal hand was safely tucked in a pocket, and it was too dark to see the blood soaking his leg. He was safe for the moment.

Bucky remembered that the man waiting for an answer, and tried to respond, but all the pain the day had brought his throat didn't do him any favors. He cleared his throat, ignoring the burning that it rewarded him with, and tried again. "South. Headin' to New York," Bucky responded, letting a hint of his old Brooklyn drawl through, using the act as if it would prove his point. 

The man just shrugged, his curiosity sated. "Seems well enough, I'm headed that direction myself. Get yerself comfortable; it's about another four hours. Get some sleep if you want, too. It's pretty late and I wouldn't blame ya for wantin' to rest." 

Bucky nodded at the man's offer of rest. He made a show of nestling up against the window even though he had no intention of getting any sleep tonight. The casual motions sent pain flaring up in his side which he had to bite his cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep from giving any indication of pain. Pierce was right, he had gotten soft in his months away from Hydra.

The blood loss was wearing him down, making his eyelids feel about a hundred pounds heavier. He wanted so badly to close them even for a moment and let the darkness pull the pain away, if even for a moment. But he knew that it was more likely than not that he would wake up screaming, fists flying, and that would raise questions that would have to answered with more bloodshed, and that was the last thing he wanted.

At least he was getting fast transport away from the woods, so even if Hydra did come back to look for him, the trail would go cold soon enough for them to realize that he'd escaped their grasp yet again. Bucky leaned back into the crevice between the chair and the window, trying not to panic in the presence of the soft plush chair and the heater warming his feet. Pleasures he hadn't known in too long. Pleasures that made him soft, weak, vulnerable. It meant he was human. It meant he could be killed. He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, ignoring the concerned glance from the driver. Weakness wasn't an option, but he could tolerate it for a few hours if it got him to finding Steve Rogers faster.

Watching the street lights speed by, Bucky could have smiled to himself - if he could remember how in his dark mood. Eamon would not be pleased that Bucky had escaped so soon after his recapture. He had assumed that Bucky would listen and obey without any further complications. That he would obey orders, prove his worth, and that things would go back to the way they were. And at first he was right, he would have been a good little lap dog and listened without question. They may have even been able to get Bucky to consider himself loyal to Hydra's again, with enough wipes.

But that was until Eamon had told him exactly where to go to find Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Какова моя миссия?" translates to "What is my mission?"  
> "Ничего," translates to "Nothing."  
> "нет," translates to "No."  
> "дерьмо!" translates to "Shit!"


End file.
